


Made to Love You

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom takes Bill to a KISS concert, you say?  The evening clearly ends in one way, and one way only...IN SONG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made to Love You

**Author's Note:**

> Based on KISS's video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNGNLo8K6Fk "I was made for loving you" and the fact that Tom blogged _he_ took Bill to see the concert. :D As usual, I have my own (fictional) version... Thank you, Michelle, for bunnying me. ♥ I needed this. I hope it fit your vision, more or less! And a huge thank you to for the flaily banner of amazing and win.  <3

Starry-eyed, Bill pumped Gene Simmons' hand with an aura of 'and never let go.' The man was still in full makeup and glam rock gear, sweat dampening his black curls and beaded up on his whited-out face, broad chest all but busting out the front of his spandex top.

Honestly, Tom thought. Who wore spandex anymore?

“Bill Kaulitz, right?” Gene inquired, letting Bill retain the grip on his hand for far too long. 

“That's right!” Bill squeaked, appearing far too thrilled.

Tom could see the night taking shape ahead of them, and he wasn't going to stand for it. He had let Dan and Dean monopolize Bill's attention for hours on end, but that was different. That was _twins_. Celebrity twins were one thing. Celebrity glam rock stars eyeing Tom's twin like a delicious main course...

“You going to kick around, rock and roll all night?” Gene asked, winking at Bill and withdrawing his hand at last.

Which was a good thing for Gene, otherwise Tom had been fully prepared to stage an intervention. Offering his own hand up for substitute had occurred. Sure, he wouldn't be able to _take_ him, but popping him in the mouth and running like hell was a possibility. Also, if the man unfurled his tongue at Bill, Tom was planning on enacting some kind of guerrilla action.

“Oh, we--” Bill began, his whole face lighting up.

“We have to get home, sorry,” Tom cut in, swift as a jungle cat. “We have dogs, they have to be walked. Inconvenient, but what are you going to do?” He laughed, the sound over-loud, and downed half his drink.

“Aw, that's too bad,” Simmons said, already losing interest. “Well, nice meeting you kids.”

“Likewise!” Tom called to Simmons' retreating back, putting an arm around Bill to steer him away from the center of the VIP party.

“You,” Bill hissed in his ear, baleful as a steam kettle, “are an ass.”

“You want Gollum to wet the front mat again?” Tom countered. “You know it damages his self-esteem.”

“Well, no,” Bill admitted. Nevertheless, he sulked and gave Tom the silent treatment on the entire way back to Tom's Audi. 

On Tom's part, he was full of energy, drumming chords against his thigh, swinging his keys, replaying that last spectacular set complete with impressive pyrotechnics in his head. He was glad Bill had dragged him to the KISS concert, after all. Pretexting him out of the VIP party early so that Tom wouldn't have to put up with observing the continual, misguided attempts of assorted men trying to get into Bill's pants was an added bonus.

“Bill,” Tom said, after they had pulled out into traffic.

“I'm not speaking to you,” Bill said, turning his head away to look out the window.

“Come on, Bill,” Tom wheedled. “What's wrong?”

“What's wrong? What's _wrong_?” Bill's voice rose by an octave.

Tom winced and cracked a window open.

"Tom, you made me look lame in front of Gene Simmons!" Bill whined, flailing across the car and shoving at him with the heel of his hand.

"Come on," Tom said, raising his brows in swift incredulity. "You care about your rep with Gene Simmons? He doesn't even know who you are!"

"Yes he does," Bill insisted. "I printed out that article where he talked about me. And I framed it. It's on The Wall." An entire side of Bill's room was dedicated to clippings of news sources talking about Tokio Hotel, Bill, Tom; the items Bill had gathered ran the gamut from awards bragging to a few of the more outrageous twin-jokes that idiot reporters ran as fact.

"Whatever, he was checking you out," Tom said, waving a dismissive hand. "Do you have any idea how many women Gene Simmons has had? He makes me look like an uptight virgin."

Bill scoffed. "You _are_ an--"

"Don't say it," Tom warned.

“And do I need to remind you, _again_ , that I'm not a woman?” Bill sulked, slouching into his seat.

“Not at all, you're much tighter,” Tom said cheerfully.

The back of Bill's hand cracked against Tom's arm and Tom hooted like a loon, pretending to swerve the wheel fit to send the Audi spinning across the road. “I'm too appalled to laugh,” Bill informed him. “Ass. You're lucky I love you, or you'd never get laid.”

In response, Tom began humming “I Was Made For Loving You” with vigor. Bill laughed at him, leaned against his door, and kept stealing glances from across the car while lifting his nose up in continued pretense of offended dignity.

When they arrived home, all four dogs were piled so closely to the door that Tom knew his concerns had been well-founded. He sometimes wondered when he'd become one of 'those' people, but he'd been worrying off and on during the evening over whether Gollum had taken a proper whiz before they left.

Bill knelt at once, making a concerted effort to gather all of the dogs into his arms. “Oh, babies,” he crooned, kissing furry heads and hugging sleek flanks, getting smacked in the neck and face with wagging tails for his efforts. “Billy missed you. Want to go for a walk?”

Four sets of alert ears pricked up.

“That's right, walk,” Tom said, encouraging, grabbing four leashes off the hook. “Mama wanted to stay out and party until dawn, but Papa was thinking only of you.”

“And not thinking of getting laid, obviously,” Bill said with an eyeroll, standing up and taking two leashes out of Tom's hands. “I swear, Tom, you make that 'mama' crack one more time, and I'll--”

“You'll what?” Tom interrupted. “Bill, it's not like you're going to spontaneously grow ovaries.”

Bill made a horrified face at him. “Is that why you've been bringing up baby names lately? Oh my god, I know you like children, Tom, but you still _are_ one, so--”

“Come on, Nova,” Tom said with an aggrieved sigh, guiding his pointer to the door. “Let's make sure the coast is clear of fangirls.”

"We're not having any babies until you hit puberty, Tom," Bill informed him.

Tom rolled his eyes and considered a number of responses, all of which he discarded because he was still thinking of _potentially_ getting laid, at least.

In the dead of night, with only darkness overlooking the street, sometimes the twins liked to twine fingertips as they took sleepy-recalcitrant dogs on the last walk for the night. They did that tonight when, block after block, the neighborhood proved dark and soundly asleep. It was a risk, a small one, but more than worth it for the brilliance of the smile Bill levied on Tom when he reached out to cross the space that separated them. More than anything, the closeness was what they craved, moments of quiet when they could make a little fantasy of the impression that they were the only two people in the world. The dogs whuffled along to each side of them, inspecting favored places, anointing others as they passed.

Tonight Tom and Bill talked about the concert, reliving favored sets and discussing the sheer rock showmanship of the band.

“We would do so much better,” Bill put forth, as he had many times in the past, “if all four of us had a unified theme. Clothes, you know. It's all in the clothes. And the willingness to wear guyliner.”

“And I've told you before, we all do what we want,” Tom replied, firm. “It's what makes us work as a band. And you know you like to stand out most of all, anyhow.”

Bill made a little noise of anguish as they turned up their front walk. “But, if only we all wore the same kind of costume--”

“Bill, I love you, but you're never buying my clothes, stage or otherwise,” Tom said, blunt. He gave in to little suggestions, here and there; touches of Gucci or Armani that Bill thought might fit into his wardrobe. “And god, do you realize? If you try to put Gustav in spandex, he'd quit.”

Bill snickered. “Okay, okay...”

Unleashing the hounds as they returned to the front hall of the house was an anticlimactic process. Scotty tottered about twelve steps into the living room and collapsed on his side; he was the oldest and most sedate of their dogs. Sadie and Gollum pattered over to the nearest dog bed and piled into it to create a snug heap together. Nova sought out the couch, circled three times to make sure it wasn't going anywhere, and stared at them as he settled his head on his paws.

“Maybe I should stop stuffing them with so many--” Bill began, appearing penitent.

“Don't say it,” Tom said, covering Bill's mouth with his hand. The word 'treat' would get the dogs all excited again, and Tom was the plaything of choice when Bill got them riled up.

Bill licked his palm and danced out of range when Tom squawked and reached for him.

“Your saliva has been everywhere on my body; do you think that's going to stop me?” Tom demanded, following Bill to the kitchen.

Bill laughed outright. “Yes,” he said, “because you're so fussy, and that wasn't done in a sexual context.” His eyes flicked down.

Tom followed the glance downward and caught himself in the act of rubbing his hand against his jeans. He made a face.

“What now, killjoy?” Bill inquired, cracking the refrigerator door open. “The dogs are walked, we certainly aren't at an awesome VIP party...”

“Oh, but we are,” Tom returned, approaching and reaching out for Bill's skinny waist. “You and me, we're VIPs...”

Bill scrunched his face up as Tom began to hum.

At last, Tom wound up and sang, somewhat off key, "I want to rock and roll all night...and party in Billy's pants!" He settled his hands on Bill's hips and swayed to his own made-up beat.

“Nice try,” Bill said, shoving a beer bottle into his hand. “I liked the other song you were singing better.”

Tom raised a brow as he went to rummage for the bottle opener. “Want to go upstairs?”

Bill leaned back against the kitchen counter and held out his bottle in a silent request for Tom to open it for him. “Hmm, I don't know,” he said, pretending to consider.

At least, Tom hoped he was pretending.

“Come on,” Tom said, and did what he rarely engaged in, breaking into spontaneous song again. He warbled, “I was made for loving you, baby...” Grasping the beer bottle in his left hand as though it were the neck of his Gibson, he whaled on air guitar with his right.

Bill cackled and lounged back on his elbows on the counter, dark eyes lit bright with amusement.

“Tonight, I wanna give it all to you...in the darkness, there's so much I wanna do,” Tom crooned, putting his soul into it, knowing he was communing, in a way, with Bill's – the other ragged half to his incomplete self. “And tonight, I wanna lay it at your feet...cuz twin, I was made for you...and Bill, you were made for me!”

Grinning, Bill pushed away from the counter as Tom strummed the air with vigor, really working the frets of his imaginary guitar. Bill held up his bottle in his right hand and sang toward the mouth, “I was made for loving you, Tomi...and you were made for loving me; and I can't get enough of you, Tomi...”

Tom threw himself into really burning up his air guitar while he serenaded Bill in English with the words that accentuated every facet of his life. He drew out his final solo with corny showmanship, but caught the sparkle in Bill's eye that sometimes prefaced happy tears.

He wasn't simply singing to Bill. He was giving him back their truth.

"Can you give it all to me?" Tom challenged, grinning up at Bill and half-wincing at his voice, not nearly so sure as Bill's but every bit as heartfelt.

They went through the entire final chorus together. Bill half-turned, his face illuminated, not quite breaking eye contact with Tom as he lifted his beer to his mouth to steal another sip.

“I really was,” Tom said, his voice soft. "Made to love _you._ "

Bill caught his breath. He bit his lip, but not before Tom saw the quick upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. "Want to fool around?" he invited.

“Sure,” Tom said, careful to keep it nonchalant. “I'll take whatever you've got on offer.”

“Cuddles?” Bill proposed with a mischievous smile.

“Sounds good,” Tom agreed, drawing Bill into the crook of his arm as they left the kitchen.

“Back rub?” Bill bargained, swigging his beer and producing an adorable burp that he covered belatedly with a manicured hand.

“I'd love one,” Tom said with a grin.

“Ass,” Bill said, but the accusation lacked force.

“Planning on having my way with yours,” Tom informed him, turning his head to angle a kiss beside Bill's jaw before they navigated the stairs together.

Bill gave him an arch look. “Were you, now.”

“Yes,” Tom stated with confidence, “because I was made for loving you – every part of you, with everything I am.”

“Oh,” Bill said, and clutched at his mouth again, though he hadn't drunk enough to reach the sentimental stage of tipsy. “You were; my own Tomi. Okay. But cuddles, first.”

“As you wish,” Tom promised, because that was often how it started.

"And a massage," Bill tried to add that one in again.

"Okay," Tom said, smothering a smirk. "How about I massage your prostate with my dick?"

Bill snorted and clocked his head against Tom's shoulder as he tried to smother his sudden burst of the giggles. "That's smooth. How about I take a nice long shower and do the same thing with my favorite vibrator?"

Tom made a wounded noise. "You said you never played favorites because they were all threatened by mine..." He grasped Bill's hand and spun him out into a swirl as they reached their threshold.

Bill was still laughing, his dark eyes glinting with good humor and a deeper knowledge, an affirmation of everything that bound them together. He lifted his bottle to clink with Tom's, both bottle tones high-pitched as the liquid levels ran low. "No shower?" He drank, making a face as he finished. Beer wasn't Bill's favorite.

“Hmm...I was thinking more along the lines of inviting you to an exclusive soiree,” Tom said, hoping he was remembering the word right. If it wasn't dirty or involving tongue, he had trouble with French.

Bill frowned. "What?"

"A soiree below my belt," Tom said. When the furrow between Bill's eyes deepened, Tom struggled to clarify. "An all-access celebration behind my zipper?"

Bill's brow cleared. “Tom...are you trying to invite me to a party in your pants?”

"Yes. No. Maybe...are you planning on coming?"

"Oh, I'm coming, all right," Bill purred in his ear. "And the song got it wrong. We're going to _party_ all night...and rock and roll all our lives."

"I can live with that," Tom said, plucking the empty from Bill's hand and setting their bottles aside in order to maneuver Bill into a dip. He kissed him, pulled back a fraction, ran his lips over Bill's parted mouth and did it again. And again.

The way he'd do all night, and for the rest of their lives.


End file.
